


Away

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Rescues Timestamps [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, will's goddamn filthy mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3522992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“They allowed me the day off, tomorrow,” Hannibal murmurs, pulling Will from his thoughts - or back to them, they involve the same person, after all - “But I cannot make my mind sit still. Can’t shut it down enough to even sleep. I’ve passed the threshold of exhaustion.” A laugh, deep, more a warm purr than anything else, and Will knows his eyes are closed, his lips split into a smile.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You must miss me too much,” grins Will, unable to stop now, when he hears it in Hannibal’s voice, too.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Entirely so.”</i>
</p>
<p>Will is away a few days fixing up things for the shop. He misses his husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solamentenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solamentenic/gifts).



> For the incredible [wiith-my-hands](http://wiith-my-hands.tumblr.com/), who requested Rescues and Will's dirty mouth during sex. How could we refuse?

It should be easy. Five, six hours’ drive and a bundle of paperwork to finish re-certification for the shop. Plans to visit a few rescue shelters who might be interested in working. Checking in on a few far-flung families who’ve adopted to see how everyone’s doing.

It should be easy.

Will has hardly managed to pick at a dinner of drive-through fries and a drippy burger before his eyes drift to his phone. He told himself he wouldn’t, not right away. He’d settle and check in to the cheap motel, despite Hannibal’s insistence that he stay somewhere nicer, and try to give the man his space. Surely he needs it. Surely they both do.

Surely.

Will wipes ketchup from his fingers, a rare and secret pleasure to get the sugary stuff from the packets rather than _catsup_ , and bundles the food to the nightstand before tapping a fingertip against his screen.

As if on cue, it alights, and so does he.

“Hannibal. Hi.”

"Please remind me," Hannibal’s voice is warm, so familiar Will just grins with it, "that I once thought medicine would be a rewarding career, and how I stated that I would not mind seventeen-hour shifts and sleeping in the lunch room."

"Another seventeen?"

"Eighteen, today," Hannibal sighs, and he sounds exhausted, he sounds so entirely heavy with it. Will imagines that were he home, this weight would be cuddled up against him, nuzzling against his chest and sighing, mumbling words that slip to Lithuanian once in a while without him noticing.

"How are the dogs?" Hannibal asks.

Will runs a hand over his chest, as if to somehow replace the weight of Hannibal’s absence. “Everything’s fine. Which is good. That’s a good thing. I just -”

Hannibal hums, and Will bites his lip before releasing it with a laugh.

“I wish I were home,” he finishes.

“You’ve only just left,” teases Hannibal, and Will feels his cheeks darken in response. It’s a bit embarrassing, though Hannibal certainly doesn’t mean it that way - he’s a grown man who should be able to manage a few days away without turning into a homesick kid about it. But then Hannibal sighs, and Will knows he’s just laid down in bed - in _their_ bed - and his chest cracks with wanting all over again.

“How are _our_ dogs?” Will asks, running his hand over his face to stifle the sound that wants to break from him. He drops it back to the bed and holds his breath. It would be a groan, as long as it took to squeeze every ounce of air from his lungs, a deep and aching thing. It would feel great.

He resists.

“You know how well Mischa has them trained to her hand now,” Hannibal responds. There’s a sound of fabric shifting and then the slightly louder hum of the room itself, when Hannibal turns the phone from his ear and on speaker instead. “Spoilt things.”

It’s so fond, it is all so fond, and domestic, entirely domestic. The things married couples talk about all the time. How was work? What’s for dinner? When are you coming home?

Will turns his ring over and over on his finger and raises his eyes to the ceiling.

“They allowed me the day off, tomorrow,” Hannibal murmurs, pulling Will from his thoughts - or back to them, they involve the same person, after all - “But I cannot make my mind sit still. Can’t shut it down enough to even sleep. I’ve passed the threshold of exhaustion.” A laugh, deep, more a warm purr than anything else, and Will knows his eyes are closed, his lips split into a smile.

“You must miss me too much,” grins Will, unable to stop now, when he hears it in Hannibal’s voice, too.

“Entirely so.”

“You could bring one of the dogs into bed, instead.” The rumble of disapproval draws a quick laugh from Will, rolling to his side with the phone tucked between his ear and the pillow. “Pretty much the same. Warm and fluffy.”

“With a tail.”

“And a wet nose. The whining and nuzzling would be similar though.”

“There are things that I could do with you, when you put your cold feet on me and your nose against my neck, that I could not with one of the dogs,” Hannibal remarks, and Will works his bottom lip between his teeth again.

It’s all so easy now, and Will lets his eyes slip closed as a brow lifts. “Tell me more, doctor.”

“Like run my hands up and down your back,” Hannibal sighs, settling. Will wonders if he’s still dressed, if he’s drawing one knee up as he always does, letting it balance that way until gravity pulls it one way or another. Wonders if his socks match, or, if like last time he had shifts like this, he just grabbed whatever he could find in the wash basket. “Find that one spot against your side that makes you squirm.”

Will shivers as though he had, knowing the feeling all too well, the helpless laughter that comes with it.

“Cruel.”

“Hardly.” Hannibal is definitely smiling now, voice lower, pitched and rougher with tiredness and something else. And his accent grows thick enough to taste.

“I should never have let on that I’m ticklish,” mutters Will.

“‘Let on’ isn’t entirely accurate,” Hannibal muses in response.

“I can hide it.”

“Can you?”

“No,” Will grins, pressing the back of his fingers against his cheek to cool the blush there. “But I know how to make you squirm, too.”

“Not by tickling.”

“Something like it,” answers Will. “Just beneath your belly button, that little patch of hair on your stomach. A soft tug…”

“Will,” Hannibal warns, with no bite behind the bark. It’s the same response Will would get were he actually beside him, teasing and touching, whispering against his ear, warm and pleased.

“And your thighs, right in that little hollow when you spread them for me…”

A groan then, low, like the sound Will had wanted to make, and he shivers hearing it. Hannibal would be moving now, sleepy motions to arch his back and tuck his head back against the pillows. Eyes closed, probably, where they remain stoically open with Will in person, always looking at him, never wanting to look away.

Will considers for a moment, before biting his lip.

“Have you spread them?”

A swallow that Will can almost feel, thick and quiet and so beautifully vulnerable. A shift of fabric again, but muted, now, almost hollow, and he hears Hannibal’s throat click as he settles again, licks his lips open with a sigh.

“Would you spread your fingers over it?” Hannibal asks him quietly. “Would you press your lips there instead?”

“Patience,” Will answers, voice low and consonants clicking. He doesn’t need to see Hannibal to know he’s just shivered. “I would start at the inside of your knee. Fingertips just near enough to move the hair on your leg, no more than that. You always spread your legs wider, then, to make it stop, but I wouldn’t.”

“No,” agrees Hannibal, the word nearly a whisper. It’s Will who shivers this time.

“The skin is so soft there,” murmurs Will. “Fine fluffy hair beneath my fingers. Your cock -” Hannibal audibly chokes back a sound, and Will huffs a laugh. “Not yet. But it’s fucking beautiful. Skin stretching tight as it thickens, just from this.”

“Just from this. From you.”

Will hums, curling a little tighter, as if it might somehow bring him closer to Hannibal’s voice. “And then -”

“There.”

“Just there. The highest part of your thigh, where it dips, dark with shadow -”

“Will -”

“Touch,” Will tells him. “Touch yourself there. Just press your fingers against it.”

It’s so clear, it’s almost as though Will is right next to him, feeling that shiver of breath against his hair as he always does when he teases Hannibal this way, just little strokes of his fingers, gentle, over and over and enough, every time, to bring the man to uncontrollable shivering, goosebumps on his skin and hitches in his breath.

Hannibal murmurs something, his native tongue lyrical and flowing from his lips and Will smiles.

“What?” His own Lithuanian is barely passable, but Mischa is still valiantly determined to teach it to him, when they have the time. He’s gotten better. He can hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice as he repeats what he said, slowly, then translates, voice low, breathy from it, and Will knows he’s still touching.

“Five hours is too long a distance.”

“I’ve only just left,” Will reminds him, grin widening so much it hurts when Hannibal laughs softly into the phone. “Listen to you. Already so needy for it. And you say you’re exhausted -”

“I am, entirely.”

“Not enough, apparently.”

Rolling to his back, Will keeps his eyes closed, and lets himself slip away from the starch-stiff bedcover and water-stained ceilings. He times his breathing with Hannibal, imagining the older man’s weight on the bed beside him, the rosy burn across his cheeks. Will skims a hand over his stomach, up to his chest, back down again, each time a little lower, daring.

“My mouth -”

“Yes,” Hannibal sighs.

“Just there.”

“Please -”

“Pressing my tongue against it, so close to your cock but not yet -”

Hannibal’s words fail, breaking into a soft, urgent breath.

“God, I love just rubbing my lips against it though. Breathing over it just to see you squirm, your legs tensing, toes shoved into the sheets. You smell like sweat -”

“I’m sorry -”

“I fucking love it,” murmurs Will. “The way you taste, the way you smell, how big your cock looks when I’m so close to it. You always put a hand in my hair but you never push me to it. You just keep it out of my face so you can watch.” He sucks his lips between his teeth and releases them on a long exhale. “Touch yourself, Hannibal. Stroke yourself the way you would want to feel my lips wrapped around you.”

Never once, in the years living together, despite the worry on both ends, despite the horror stories, once they had gotten married, of what happens to sex, what happens to intimacy and how it deteriorates like tissue paper in water, never once have they found themselves unsatisfied with each other.

Will hears Hannibal draw his tongue over his palm, a slow pull of his tongue before a gasp replaces it, a long exhale through his nose that he turns into a warm groan and Will smiles at.

“Good.”

Always still the early morning fever that takes him, that pulls him up against Hannibal’s chest, their hands against each other, lips barely meeting as they rub and rut and laugh at the sheer youthful joy of it. Always the swearing, Will’s words pulling that beautiful glaze to Hannibal’s eyes where he just watches, enthralled, adoring, as Will spills filth against his skin, rides him until Hannibal can barely breathe for it. Always just them.

“Pull the foreskin back.” Will hears the beginning of a ‘no’, a soft plea to not bring him there so quickly, and yet Will always does anyway, careful fingers and clever mouth. “I love how you taste, just there,” he sighs. “Salty and sharp and entirely fucking alive, Hannibal.”

“Please, Will -”

“Draw your thumb over it.”

“Will -” It’s entirely fond, tense with pleasure and low, so low that Will knows Hannibal has lost his rational self to this, allowed himself to just fall, be touched and kissed, when Will is home, taken. God, he wants to be home…

“It’s so soft,” Will murmurs, running his hand over his face, across his eyes, as if feverish. “That skin, it’s like fucking velvet Hannibal. You always feel so thick in my mouth, so heavy. And when I slip it back, the head is always glistening, bright red and sensitive and beautiful. When I kiss it, you twitch. It’s like your cock wants to be kissed, pushing back against my mouth, my tongue when I suck a little too hard or when I hold your balls in my hand. Just a little squeeze, just enough, and -”

“God, Will.”

His grin widens, and with abandon, Will shoves his hand into his jeans. “Just like that. Every time. Painting my lips with your precome, slick and salty, pushing my tongue against the slit -”

Hannibal curses, long and low, and Will sees him rising onto his shoulders, back bridged from the bed.

A pause, and a laugh. “The only part of you I like putting my mouth on more -”

“Will -”

“- is your ass.”

“Fuck.”

Will grins, rare enough that Hannibal swears at all, but when he swears so calmly, so succinctly, it is a victory in itself. He listens to Hannibal panting quietly against the phone and bites his lip, arching himself up off the bed too before laying down again.

“Are you touching?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

Hannibal’s throat clicks on a swallow, and Will imagines he takes a moment, always, even like this, half undone, to try getting himself to a semblance of properness, order, to answer.

“Stroking my cock,” Hannibal tells him, “like you told me to. Slow, long pulls, like how you tease me with your mouth, to see me tremble with it.” He exhales, long, a soft helpless groan at the end before he takes another breath. “It’s so good, Will.”

“Your fingers,” Will tells him, arching up into his own hand now, smile pulling free across his face. “Suck them. Let me hear it. Sloppy and slick and dripping for when you pull them free.”

“Why?” The question is weak, little, and he’s close, already so close even without this, always so responsive, always so eager and accepting of everything Will gives him. And he gives him everything.

“Because I’m going to imagine you’re sucking me off instead,” Will purrs, voice warm and rough as a cat’s tongue. “I’m going to jerk off and listen to the sounds your mouth makes and think about my husband, the doctor, with his lips all red and swollen around my dick.”

Hannibal hardly has time to draw a breath before Will continues, and the older man listens, barely breathing.

“Your cheeks get so flushed when you do. Your tidy hair falls into your eyes, nearly black when you look up at me from between my legs. You know when I pull out and you get spit on your chin?” Will laughs, and in a breath, it becomes a moan as he works his hand quick against himself. “I do it on purpose, because I love to see how fucking messy you get when you want me this bad.”

His throat clicks into the breathless silence.

“Suck them, Hannibal. Let me hear it. And when they’re wet enough, slide them into your ass. Both of them, at the same time.”

A laugh, little, and Will knows Hannibal is biting his lip, holding himself at bay with the mental images of Will there, whispering this into his ear as his own fingers work to stretch him open. So many times this way, so many times when Will has instructed with his own legs spread and his own head back and voice pitching but still talking, words pouring between them like warm caramel.

There is an exhale, slow, and the gentle brush of velvet-rough tongue against fingertips and Will groans. 

“Take them deep,” he sighs, knows that Hannibal obeys, body taut in his pleasure, lips reddening, eyes closed and hair soft and messy. He knows Hannibal’s mind is just as far gone as Will is into his own, to bring them together, there, even when they have only been apart five hours - six hours… - and will see each other in about as many more. He adores him.

Will slows his hand against himself, long hard squeezes with his palm skimming across the tip, slicking himself with his own glistening precome. He misses Hannibal’s hands, big and strong and skilled - a surgeon’s hands, an artist’s hands, a chef - capable of handling Will roughly when he wishes it and as gentle as if Will were made of porcelain.

He tightens his hand, tightens his throat, holds himself back from the sensation that he’s about to split at the seams and fall to pieces with missing him. “As deep as you can, Hannibal. Push them in as deep as you possibly fucking can and spread them. Wider. Open yourself up for me, please, Hannibal -”

His husband’s voice aches, so soft that it nearly rends Will in two.

“Stay, there, just like that. God, I want to put my fucking tongue in your ass until you cry. I would make you fucking drip, Hannibal, your hole so open for me to push my cock into. Touch, Hannibal, curl your fingers - right there, the head of my cock would rub right there, and I wouldn’t stop. Not when you beg, not when you put your long legs around me, not when you kiss me and plead my name.”

“Will, please -”

“Not yet.”

Hannibal shifts, one hand stroking, the other pushed in, stretching, bringing himself to flushed pleasure and Will just _imagines_. Blush over his nose and down his neck, hair fluffy and spread against the pillow, and those sounds, those sweet, plaintive, pleading little things that jerk through his entire body, now, through the phone, pull him weak with heat and cold at once.

“Will...”

He thinks of how Hannibal smiles, laughs softly after sex, always, and pulls Will close, gathers him to him and just holds him, eyes close and hearts slowly lining up to beat in time again. Every time. Every night and every morning even when all they have done was press close at night, or touch hands briefly during dinner. Always, just close.

“I love you.”

Will’s hand isn’t even curled against himself when the words uncoil him. His orgasm spirals through in a sudden burst, unfurling fast enough for him to gasp as his cock jerks against his jeans, pulsing in ropey spurts against his belly as Will’s hand clenches around the phone. His moan fills the earpiece, a blissful, almost painful pleasure wrought with words alone.

And once his breath, of course, followed by a string of obscenities.

They ease, with Will’s panting, and then it’s voice that cracks, pleading. “Hannibal,” gasps Will. “God, I love you so fucking much. I’m a fucking mess, it’s everywhere because of you. Let me hear you, please, tell me you love me again when you do it - god, fuck, I want it in my mouth. I want to lick it out of your fucking chest hair, Hannibal, I want to suck your cum from between my fingers -”

Hannibal just makes a sound, beyond words now, as he listens to Will, as he strokes and pushes himself closer and closer, Will knows, thinking of everything he paints with his words, thinking of how often they have done that, together, remembering and wanting and aching for it.

And then the tell-tale click of his throat, a helpless moan, and Hannibal’s voice trembles as he loses himself to this, to his pleasure at the thought of Will’s. He is so beautiful, even in just breaths and sounds through the phone, he is so entirely beautiful.

“I love you,” Hannibal whispers, swallowing, catching his breath, saying it again, again, until his words are curled with a laugh as warm and familiar as Will’s cursing, and the words morph into a low pleased purr and Will hears Hannibal shift around in bed, curling on his side, he thinks, pressing the phone close.

“You will have to wake me up tomorrow when you get home,” Hannibal mumbles, already closer to sleep than when he had first called. “I have no preference if it is with your words or your mouth but I feel like I will be sleeping for days.”

“I should just come home tonight.”

“Not this late.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway.”

“Then rest,” Hannibal responds, but not without a smile. Will makes a displeased sound and curls to his side, imagining his chest pressed to Hannibal’s back, one hand splayed across his chest to feel his heart settle beneath soft skin and thick curls of hair.

“Then I’ll wake you when I get there,” agrees Will, “and you’ll exhaust me enough to sleep. Deal?”

“Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Want more Rescues? (Or more chapters to a fic you're just dying to read more of?) We are hosting a [$10 for Chapter Charity Run](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/post/112441086505/wwhiskeyandbloodds-commissions-for-charity-2k15) over at [our joint blog](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/), $10 gets you a chapter of your favourite fic, and all the money goes to charity come April 1st! [Fill in a form](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1oFqn4B4zWlJ3fNbIwWIiw4w1dA8r14yjcvcMs0Z_N8I/viewform) and let's raise some money for a good cause!


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